


Sweet Sweet Heartkiller

by autoschediastic



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician)
Genre: Halloween, M/M, incubus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-18
Updated: 2010-11-18
Packaged: 2017-10-13 06:38:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/134107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autoschediastic/pseuds/autoschediastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The inside of Tommy's head has always been a little like a horror show.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet Sweet Heartkiller

Two weeks after rehearsals start, so do the dreams. The creative half of Tommy's brain is working overtime as they hash out the mechanics of how they're going to pull this shit off live without killing Adam's voice, so it's not surprising he's dreaming so much, or remembering them so vividly. But the content's thrown him for a real loop.

The inside of Tommy's head has always been a little like a horror show, long before he'd stumbled across late-night monster movie marathons at a tender, impressionable age; he figured out he got off on the fear around the same time he figured out how to get off. And Adam is big on the theatrical, even if his show isn't by industry standards, plus he runs the whole thing on batteries charged with sex. Pour all that into Tommy's skull at the same time, give him a shake, and this is what tumbles out:

A hotel room in classic midnight greyscale. Cool air slinking in as the sheets slide down from Tommy's shoulders, then a jolt from fever-hot hands slipping after it. He knows he's dreaming, even though it feels like he isn't, because he never sleeps naked, and once the sheets are gone there's nothing between those hands and his skin. The same as how he knows it's Adam leaning over him--that flash of reflected light, cat-eye bright, is from _Adam's_ eyes--and how, when he smiles, Adam hesitates, surprised, though there's no change at all to Adam's shadowed expression.

"You should be sleeping," Adam says, a low murmur.

"I am," Tommy says, lazily, and rolls onto his back, one arm dropped carelessly above his head on the white, white pillows. Everything's heavy, hazy, and his heart gives a tiny, confused flutter, like it knows something is wrong, really terribly wrong, but it isn't sure what. His thigh brushes the outside of Adam's, a searing point of contact flaring red-hot like a heating element cranked up to max. He presses closer, harder, and Adam makes a quiet, hurt noise, as if he's the one it burns.

It occurs to Tommy that if this is going to be a twisted sex dream about his boss, they should probably get on with it. He's got to be up in about three hours, and real-Adam's not going to be impressed if he's dragging his ass because he spent half the night fucking dream-Adam. But Adam hisses his name and grabs his wrist, snake-quick, before Tommy can pull him down for a kiss. He blinks up through the dark as his heart gives another one of those manic-butterfly quivers. A frisson of something, lust or fear, some fucked up fucking _perfect_ mix of both, shoots up his spine.

"Oh," he says, little more than a sharp intake of breath. "It's gonna be like that."

Adam doesn't ask _like what?_ or try to stop him when he scoots down lower, spreads his legs to trap Adam between them. The furthest Adam gets is, "You should be asleep," really, really stuck on it, like he's not going to get past it anytime soon, or even this century.

"And you should be in your own fucking bed," Tommy says, and moans, just a little, when Adam's irritation spills out in a tighter grip on his wrist.

"Fuck," Adam spits, rough, _mean_ -sounding, like he only ever gets at faulty equipment or people who are assholes to his face.

Since Tommy is neither of those, and the low-grade arousal buzzing through his system isn't anything worth complaining about, he lies still and waits, and waits, and thinks about how Adam smells different, spicier, darker, like a dash of moonlit underworld. The total gothic cliché makes him smile. He fills his lungs with Adam's new monster-movie scent, holding it deep in his chest and letting it seep into his blood, cloud his head. It's his first time playing the victim in this scenario. The script might call for a touch more resistance, but whatever. He's into it.

"Fuck," Adam says again, softer, still as desperate, "you really are, Tommy Joe. But you're scared, too."

And Tommy _is_ , in a distant, unreal way. His head's telling him it's weird to be scared of Adam. Safe, joyful Adam, who only took one look to love him, genuine and all-encompassing, true love, the kind nobody realises the poets are talking about. But his heart is beating faster, rabbit-fast, adrenaline-soaked blood surging uselessly through his veins. He can't move. He tries, and tries, and his heart crashes crazily into his ribs, because _he can't fucking move_.

"Easy, sweetheart," Adam says, and Tommy scowls up at him because fuck you, easy-sweetheart bullshit. Adam smiles, and leans down--and smiles wider when Tommy's heart skips half a dozen beats to collapse in a shuddering heap somewhere in the vicinity of his stomach at the brief brush of lips near his ear. "You shouldn't have woken up. And I'm sorry, baby, but I can't stop now."

"So don't," Tommy says, or thinks he does. It's hard to tell what's happening in dreams at the best of times, and maybe it makes dream-sense that he's paralysed but he can still talk, still breathe. Though that last one's getting harder and harder by the second. Adam's hands drag down his sides, smouldering-ash sensation left in their wake, and Tommy realises this is where he came in to this dream, to Adam touching him everywhere, waking his nerves up one by one, lighting him on fire from the outside in like a wick held to flame. He wants to move, he's fucking _dying_ to push into Adam's really annoyingly perfect touch and his frustration when he can't builds and builds until it spills out in a ragged groan. In his mind's eye he's a panting, writhing mess, hitting absolutely insane levels of turned on, and oh fuck, he wants to show Adam what this is doing to him, wants Adam to feed off of it the same as he feeds off the amped-up energy of an audience at its peak. He wants Adam to fucking crawl inside him so he can know what this is like.

"Can't," Adam says, "baby, stop," and that's as far as he gets before his control, his control of Tommy, slips.

Surging up, Tommy grabs up two rough handfuls of Adam's hair, fucking _makes_ the asshole kiss him the way he's supposed to be kissed, square on the fucking mouth with pornographic amounts of tongue. Adam tastes hot and sweet like cinnamon hearts. His lips start to tingle, then prickle, then it fucking stings but he doesn't want to stop even if his head is screaming at him that kisses aren't supposed to freakin' hurt like this. Adam tries to ease back, but fuck that, Adam's tongue is in his mouth and it's staying the fuck right where it is. He clues in too late that it doesn't matter how hard he tries to hold on, he's sinking back down, limbs gone heavy, weak, and he groans miserably at the lack of contact between them. He wants it back. He craves it, _needs_ it.

Above him, Adam is breathing hard, eyes squeezed tightly shut. "Don't," he rasps, "don't, don't do that. Don't do this to me, Tommy Joe, don't you fucking dare."

"You started it," Tommy mumbles through the fingers he has pressed to his mouth, sort of rubbing the feeling back into them but more trying to hold Adam's fading kiss in place.

Adam makes that noise again, that hurt-sounding one, and sits back on his haunches. He skims a hand over his own mouth, chasing after the ghost of their kiss, and some weird dream-sense tells Tommy that this is it, Adam's going to leave any second if he doesn't do something. He freezes, deer-in-headlights. It's like one of those choose-your-own-adventure books, and he's read it before; he knows what the bad ending is, but not how to avoid it. No matter what he does, Adam's going to disappear.

But not doing anything's a choice, too, and this is a dream, not some book-limbo to be stuck in forever if he doesn't turn the fucking page. He gives in, wholly and completely, and when his body goes heavy, he lets it happen. The fear comes slinking back, too, slick and oily telling him to fight it, fight _Adam_. He doesn't ignore it but he doesn't listen to it, either. Even when it spikes to panic, real honest-to-fuck panic, and Adam is watching him with that dark glittering stare, all he does is let it rattle around inside his skull screaming-banshee shrill. He can't catch his breath to tell Adam what he wants, can't even lift a fucking hand to reach for it.

Then Adam breathes Tommy's name like a prayer. He sinks down, brings flush the long lines of their bodies, pushes his hands under Tommy's shoulders to gather him closer. Sparks light everywhere they touch and spiral in, centre on the hot press of Adam's cock against his thigh. A sharp groan bursts out of him. He seriously wishes it weren't so fucking dark, because he'd love to see this, see them together in the bright light of day. Adam's dick feels incredible, hard and thick and damp near the head, precome smearing all over Tommy's skin as Adam rocks against him slowly.

"Need to stay in control," Adam whispers, head bowed. "Can't risk it, can't risk you," and _bullshit_ Tommy wants to shout, just bull-fucking-shit, okay? Whatever Adam needs, it isn't this. It's good, sweet, but it's too careful, too restrained. There's not enough of Adam in it. It'll hold him over, yeah, keep him going, but it won't satisfy. Tommy knows it can't, and if he knows it, then Adam fucking does too.

Adam's hand runs down his side, palms his hip, his ass. "No," he says again, like he's reading Tommy's mind--it's a dream, Tommy remembers, he isn't reading it, he's _in_ it. "Don't make me do that to you."

Tommy would like to point out that of the two of them, he's the one most emphatically _not_ doing anything here, but there's real worry laced through Adam's voice, the kind of desperate, urgent want for something he thinks he shouldn't have. He keeps saying no, over and over again, but his voice is getting weaker, threadier, all his protests beaten down beneath the weight of Tommy's acceptance. He drags in a shuddering breath as he pulls away, and not one bit worried that this is the end, Tommy lets him put a token scrap of distance between them. "Please, fuck, Tommy, _please_ , tell me no."

"Sorry," Tommy says, with a shrug and a wisp of a smile.

"You don't know what you're doing," Adam says, panicked, strident, but it's too late for that now. He's already moving, the mattress shifting as he spoons up behind Tommy, and Tommy sinks back into his arms, thighs parted for the push of his cock between them. At first it's catch and drag, slick with only a little sweat and precome, and then Adam slides too far away and comes back spit-wet, cockhead pushing up snug against Tommy's balls. It still won't be enough for Adam, but it's better, closer to what he really needs. And it's better again when Adam's arms come up, finally pin Tommy to his chest so he can thrust into the hot, wet space Tommy struggles to keep tight for him. All Tommy's body seems to want to do is go loose and boneless, bask in Adam's pleasure, and right then and there he knows without a doubt down to the very last scrap of his soul that's what he's supposed to do. Take everything that Adam gives him, so that Adam can take what he needs.

"Oh, fuck," Adam says, voice wild, hoarse, so close. "I can't, you don't understand, I _can't_ -"

But he can, and he will. To prove it Tommy twists around to kiss him, and keeps kissing him, messy and off-centre and with his heart in his throat, all the way through Adam's orgasm and for a long, long time after he's finally stopped shaking with it.

*

In the morning, Tommy is beat, like, absolutely fucking trashed, which is so unfair considering how early he bowed out at the bar last night. It's noon before he shambles his way down to soundcheck, and as soon as he makes it through the door he slows to an awkward, stumbling stop. Adam is smack dead-centre stage, practically fucking glowing in the spotlights the techs are fucking with, belting out random, joyous lyrics like they're going to come streaming out of him whether he wants to sing them or not. He's gorgeous, so fucking _alive_ , bursting with it like he hasn't for days, and dream-memory comes crashing down so hard it almost puts Tommy on his knees.

Somehow, he keeps his feet. The world's still off-kilter, but fine, okay, he'll just fucking deal with it. He means to circle his way around to the side stairs, do his own thing and leave Adam to it, but he's shuffling down the rows instead, eyes on Adam and a one-handed grip moving from seat to seat for support. In the time it takes him to reach Adam's side, he thinks: _No one'll notice, they'll think I'm hungover, had my own little party last night, venue staff won't give a fuck, I don't give a fuck, fuck, fuck, couldn't be, can't be, what the fuck is that dude looking at, never fucking seen a hungover glamgoth twink before, Jesus, Christ Jesus, Adam, oh, fuck, Adam._

Adam's voice falters. He gestures at somebody and doesn't move away when Tommy slides under his arm, but his mouth thins down to a tight line, and he takes a deep, bracing breath, which could be anything. Annoyance with the sound guy, frustration with the uncooperative venue, dissatisfaction with his morning Wheaties, a hundred and three more anythings that aren't guilt. But it looks like guilt. It looks like guilt, and Tommy woke up a little less sane this morning than he had yesterday.

Tommy burrows closer, and, "I don't fucking care," comes out muffled with his face tucked in the crook of Adam's neck like that. He's not letting go, though. Not now. His heart can crack its way straight out through his ribs if it wants, he's not fucking letting go.

There's lots he could be talking about, but only one thing he means. Maybe Adam gets it, maybe he doesn't. Maybe there's not a thing to fucking get and Tommy should really fucking lay off the recreational substances. Either way, when Adam drops a soft kiss to his temple, murmurs, "Okay, baby. Okay," it sounds like surrender.


End file.
